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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096937">Many hands make light work</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_the_thorns/pseuds/mind_the_thorns'>mind_the_thorns</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Cal doesn't know when to ask for help, Gen, Greez is an asshole with a heart of gold, Hiding an injury, Hurt Cal Kestis, Hurt/Comfort, Tumblr Prompt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 04:00:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,424</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_the_thorns/pseuds/mind_the_thorns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cal incurs an injury in the arena on Ordo Eris.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>106</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Many hands make light work</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a lovely anonymous asker on tumblr who responded to my request for help with my whump related fic challenges. They asked for "stubborn Cal refuses to ask for help after suffering an injury on Ordo Eris", and I combined their idea with the "backrubs/massages" square on my hurt/comfort bingo card. </p><p>Then the crew just starting angsting on me and I couldn't stop them, so that's why it's 5k words lol.</p><p>Hope you like it, nonny!</p><p>(Also pls dont yell at me for not updating Miles to go, I AM going to finish it, I promise!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The <em> Mantis </em> comes crashing through the barrier around Sorc Tormo’s deathmatch arena in a spectacular display of sparking wires and screeching metal, slicing through the security wall with all the subtlety of a rampaging bantha. Klaxons blare and the spectators scatter in a panic as Tormo shrieks over the comm system for someone to blast the ship out of the sky, but none of his cronies seem to be interested in complying, too stunned by the yacht’s brazen entrance to pay any mind to their boss’s squawking.</p><p>In the commotion, Cal stands frozen in the center of the arena, momentarily just as dumbfounded as the rest of them. It’s not like he’s not relieved to be rescued. He’s exhausted, injured--how badly, he’s not sure, since the adrenaline hasn’t worn off yet and it’s blunting most of the pain, but he knows there’s definitely something wrong with his shoulder at the very least. That last bounty hunter droid--the same one that’d gotten the drop him on Zeffo--had managed to deal him a pretty serious blow, charging him with a speed it really had no business possessing and nearly running him over completely. Cal had heard alarming <em> pop </em> from his shoulder on impact and now he can barely move his right arm; he’d had to finish off the droid left handed, his right having gone disconcertingly numb. He doesn’t much relish the idea of fighting off another wyyyschokk--or worse--one-handed, so the <em> Mantis’s </em>appearance is definitely timely.</p><p>But the sight of the ship--and the fleeting glimpse of its occupants through the cockpit viewport--sends a hot wash of <em> anger </em>surging through his belly. The feeling is so sudden and intense that it momentarily holds him fast, keeping him rooted to the spot as he tries, unsuccessfully, to rein it in. Everything up until this moment--the tomb of Miktrull, getting captured on Zeffo, fighting for his life in the arena--it had all been enough to distract him from the truth.</p><p>Cere had <em> lied </em>to him.</p><p>He’d trusted her, and she’d lied to him, and the only person to tell him the truth about anything so far had been the Second Sister.</p><p><em> Trilla. </em> </p><p>Her mocking voice is quiet in his mind, but it’s all he can hear over the cacophony of chaos around him.</p><p>
  <em> “Is that who you want beside you when you find the holocron?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “How long before she cracks and betrays you, too?” </em>
</p><p><em> “Because she’s a </em>liar.”</p><p>A high-pitched whining breaks through the static and Cal blinks, shaking himself free of the memory. On his back, BD-1 beeps again, urgently: Tormo has managed to martial his goons into some semblance of order and they’re preparing to fire on the <em> Mantis </em>. Steeling himself, Cal bolts up the ramp and into the ship, slapping the door controls with his good hand as soon as he’s clear. </p><p>“There is no escape!” Tormo bellows after him in outrage. “I’ll chase you across the galaxy if I have to!”</p><p>The rest of his threat is cut off as the ramp locks into place and the doors slam shut with a dull thud. Cal slumps against the bulkhead, letting his forehead rest against the cool metal, momentarily soothing the ache building behind his eyes. He seems to be collecting bloodthirsty arch-nemeses on a weekly basis these days, but unfortunately for Tormo, he’ll have to get in line behind the Empire. At least he doesn’t have to fight any more kriffing spiders for the time being.</p><p>They’re not safe yet, though--he hears the distinctive sounds of blaster cannons ricocheting off deflector shields and the <em> Mantis </em> gives a stomach-churning lurch as it lifts off the ground. For a heartstopping moment, he thinks this whole rescue mission is about to prove horrifically short lived, but it appears Tormo hadn’t exactly built his arena’s defenses with escapees in mind--the Brood’s firepower isn’t enough to pierce their shields and within moments, the <em> Mantis </em>maneuvers cleanly through the hole it’s just torn open and glides back into open space.</p><p>Cal stays where he is for several seconds, breathing heavily and beginning to feel every scrape and bruise as the adrenaline fades. Whatever he’s done to his shoulder is starting to worry him a little. Now that he’s no longer in moral peril, it’s getting harder to ignore the pain, which seems to throb in time to his heartbeat and only gets worse any time he so much as twitches his fingers. It needs to be looked at--sooner, rather than later, most likely--but it’s going to have to wait for the time being. Cere and Greez need to be updated on everything he’s found out since leaving them behind on the <em> Mantis </em>what feels like weeks ago, now--about the astrium, about Trilla and how she somehow already knows what they’re after and--</p><p>Cal wants answers. And this time, he wants them from Cere herself.</p><p>It’s only when the stars in the skylight overhead blur and burst into the endless blue corridor of hyperspace that he manages to peel himself away from the wall and limp across the bridge and into the cockpit. Greez half-turns to look at him, smiling nervously. </p><p>Cal doesn’t return the gesture. “So, Greez. Just met some of your old friends. Sounds like you’re pretty famous down there.”</p><p>“Yeah, they’re an ugly group, huh? They smell like used droid oil.” He chuckles, but when Cal just looks at him, he trails off into an awkward cough and turns away, fidgeting with the instruments on his control panel.</p><p>“I won’t say I told you so, Greez, but this was certainly a complication we could have avoided,” Cere says sternly from her seat at the comms station, and somehow this just makes Cal even angrier. </p><p>As if she has any right to chastise Greez for keeping secrets when she’d looked him dead in the eyes and told him her Padawan was dead. </p><p>He takes a deep breath, trying to master his feelings, to release them into the Force, but not only is he wildly unsuccessful, the movement also sends a twinge of skittering pain up from his shoulder and into his neck.</p><p>His wince doesn’t go unnoticed. Cere’s eyes fall on his right arm, tucked up awkwardly against his side, and she frowns. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Cal bites out, and then cuts her off with a wave of his good hand when she opens her mouth to protest. “We have another <em> complication </em>--the Empire knows about the holocron.”</p><p>Her frown deepens. “That’s not good. We’re going to have to be a lot more careful going forward. How did you find this out?”</p><p>“I had a nice chat with the Second Sister,” Cal says flatly, studying her face closely for a reaction. “<em> Trilla. </em>”</p><p>Behind him, he hears Greez shift restlessly in his pilot’s chair, but all his attention is on Cere. She meets his gaze evenly for a moment, but then her eyes flicker away. Her tone is guarded.</p><p>“What did she tell you?”</p><p>It’s not exactly a denial, but it’s not a confession, either. Even now, she won’t tell him the whole truth. </p><p>“She told me--” he starts, fighting hard to keep his voice even. “She told me you betrayed her to the Empire.”</p><p>There’s a <em> very </em>long pause, the silence stretching on and on until it becomes almost deafening. It’s only the three of them in the cockpit, but suddenly the space feels far too small.</p><p>Greez shuffles around in his chair to face them, clearing his throat theatrically. “Hey, uh, maybe we should save this conversation for later. Anyone else want to take a break? I don’t know about you guys but I am <em> starving </em>.” </p><p>He leans forward and rests a conciliatory hand on Cal’s bad shoulder, as if to steer him out of the cockpit. The touch is light but it still feels like someone has injected molten lava into his veins, every nerve from his clavicle to his fingernails lighting up with pain. Cal flinches away, letting his anger and frustration mask the physical hurt. </p><p>“Is it true?” he grits out, ignoring Greez’s aggrieved expression to meet Cere’s eyes, searching for any trace of deception. </p><p>“She’ll say anything to jeopardize this mission--”</p><p>“<em>Is it true?! </em>”</p><p>Startled by his outburst, Greez actually rears back in his seat, and a brief flash of regret passes through Cal. He’s not used to raising his voice but it punches out of him before stop himself.</p><p>Cere, meanwhile, barely blinks at him, as if she’d been expecting it. Her expression has gone hard, almost blank, her mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. Cal can practically see the gears spinning in her head, trying to work out what to tell him. </p><p>“She was my apprentice,” she says at length, voice infuriatingly even as she proceeds--once again--to dance around the truth. “Before the Purge--”</p><p>“You should have <em> told </em>me.” </p><p>It’s not what he means to say (<em> why did you lie to me, why don’t you trust me, what else aren’t you telling me </em>), but it’s what comes out of his mouth anyway. Everything else gets stuck in his throat and simmers there, like a lid slammed over a pot about to boil over. Part of him wants to yell at her again, wants to let everything explode out of him all at once, but somehow he knows it won’t make him feel any better. He’s not sure what will, at this point.</p><p>Another eternity-long second passes before any of them speak again, and once more it’s Greez who breaks the uncomfortable silence, although this time it’s in response to an urgently flashing light on the dash of Cere’s comm station. Hesitantly, he gestures at the sensor. “You, uh...you gonna get that?”</p><p>Cere sighs heavily and turns away from them, fingers dancing along the display. “We’re getting an encrypted message,” she reports, surprise coloring her voice. “From Kashyyyk.”</p><p>When no one has an immediate response to this, Greez grumbles under his breath and spins back around to flip a switch on the panel to his left. Behind them, the Holotable crackles to life. With one last hard look at Cere (who studiously ignores him), Cal leaves the cockpit to stand in front of it, watching as the projector lights up with a somewhat blurred image of Mari Kosan, their Partisan contact. </p><p>The message is blessedly brief: Mari has located Tarfful in the Shadowlands and the Wookie chieftain has agreed to meet with him. It’s good news, mostly--it’s a big galaxy, and without Tarfful’s help they would have had a difficult time tracking down one of Cordova’s astriums--but it does very little to improve his mood.</p><p>Message concluded, the projection winks out, leaving the three of them in silence once more, save for the low hum of hyperspace. Cal can’t help but meet Cere’s gaze across the table, giving her one last chance explain herself, to explain <em> anything </em> , but all he gets is a subdued promise that they’ll talk later before she retreats to her quarters. Greez, meanwhile, shuffles back to the cockpit, mumbling reassurances to himself. Cal can’t tell if he’s nervous about returning to Kashyyyk (with all its very hungry native fauna) or if it’s the tense atmosphere of the <em> Mantis </em>that’s troubling him. Probably both--Greez’s avoidance of both nature and most forms of confrontation isn’t exactly a secret.</p><p>Left to his own devices, and with nowhere else to go on the small ship that isn’t already occupied, Cal heads back to his bunk in the engine room. The pain in his shoulder is so bad by now it’s making his jaw ache. He briefly thinks about grabbing the ship’s medpac from the galley, but if it’s anything like the standard medpacs the foreman droids used to give out on Bracca, then there’s probably nothing in there that will help. At least he’s used to patching himself up by now. The scrapyards hadn’t exactly been the safest place to work, even less so after the Empire took over--the guild’s idea of “safety features” had gone from proper regulations and careful oversight to slapping a tattoo on the arm of every worker in order to make their dead bodies easier to identify in the event of an accident. Five years there had taught him pretty quickly that if he didn’t take care of himself, no one else would.</p><p>It suits him just fine. He’d rather be alone right now, anyway.</p><p>Well, except for BD-1, that is.</p><p>As if reading his thoughts, the droid pipes up from somewhere behind his left shoulder. He’s not heavy enough to notice usually, but even still, Cal’s glad that the little guy seems to know that his usual perch would be painful at the moment.</p><p>“Yeah, I know it’s messed up,” he replies, grimacing at the accuracy of the droid’s statement. Sums up everything pretty well--his shoulder, his relationship with Cere, even his confidence in their mission. At least he can fix his shoulder. Hopefully.</p><p>BD-1 hops down onto his cot, the tray on the side of his head sliding open to reveal several stim canisters. He beeps inquisitively.</p><p>Cal takes a moment to consider but ultimately decides against it. Stims would take care of the pain, but they also tend to bring out the insomniac in him, and he very much would like to sleep at some point during their journey to Kashyyyk. “Maybe later, buddy. Let’s see how bad it is first.”</p><p>Getting out of his rigger’s harness and undershirt one-handed proves somewhat challenging, but he manages to struggle out of them without hurting himself further. Bracing himself, he looks down at his right shoulder to get his first real look at the damage.</p><p>BD-1 tilts his head back and forth, hooting in confusion.</p><p>“No, it definitely shouldn’t look like that,” Cal confirms, staring down at the very out of place lump protruding from his skin. The whole area looks red and inflamed; it’ll probably be black and blue by tomorrow morning. Even more worrisome, the shape of his shoulder is all wrong--more square than rounded. Cal’s never been squeamish, but his stomach still churns uncomfortably at the sight. “I think it’s dislocated.”</p><p>BD-1 trills and looks toward the door, then back up at Cal.</p><p>He shakes his head--then immediately regrets it, pain zinging up and down his neck at the sudden motion. “I can handle it.”</p><p>The droid just peers up at him, somehow managing to look unconvinced despite lacking facial features. He hops closer to the door again, beeping reproachfully.</p><p>“Look, neither of them seem to want to talk to me right now and I’m not sure I wanna talk to them, either, so just…” Cal sighs bitterly and slowly sinks into a sitting position on the cot, trying to hold his entire upper body perfectly still. “Just let me handle it, okay? I know what I’m doing. Kind of.”</p><p>BD-1’s responding <em> boop </em>is the definition of dubious, but he nonetheless settles back down onto Cal’s pillow without further protest.</p><p>It’s not...a <em> total </em> lie. Cal has at least seen this type of injury before. His third year on Bracca, he and a fellow rigger, Chaarl, had been scrapping the engines of an <em> Acclamator </em>when the load-bearing platform they’d been working on had suddenly dropped out from underneath them. Cal had managed to scramble to solid ground before it gave way entirely but Chaarl hadn't been so lucky. The Pantoran had only cheated death that day by grabbing onto a loose cable about halfway down, but the jolt as he’d come to an abrupt stop had wrenched his shoulder right out of its socket. All things considered, it could have ended much worse, but thankfully Chaarl had been okay and, if Cal’s remembering correctly, he’d even been able to go back to work the next day, albeit with his arm in a brace. </p><p>Of course, Cal <em> also </em> remembers the colorful collection of swear words that had tumbled out of Chaarl’s mouth when the clinic meddroid had popped the joint back into place. It certainly hadn’t been something the man had tried to do on his own, either. Still, Cal is fairly confident he remembers the maneuver the droid had performed--a lot of it seemed to boil down to getting the proper angle and applying the right amount of pressure. Another set of hands would be the simplest way to get this done, but since that’s out of the question…</p><p>He inhales deeply and reaches out through the Force, breathing out slowly through his nose and trying to focus inward. Gingerly, he probes at the injured joint before giving it a firm <em> push </em>--</p><p>The resulting burst of pain is so intense and immediate that he almost blacks out. Cal grits his teeth, fighting back both a scream and the swell of nausea that rises in his throat as he hears something <em> grind </em> internally, something that probably shouldn’t be making any noises at all. Only the scream gets out, thankfully, a strangled yelp that quickly gets swallowed up by the hum of the engines behind him. BD-1 chirps at him, sounding frantic, but Cal can barely breathe, let alone reassure him. He’s reduced to sitting slumped over with his head practically between his knees, clutching his bicep in a death grip as he waits for the pain to subside.</p><p>“<em>Kriff </em>,” he groans emphatically, once he can sit up straight again. BD-1 nods in agreement.</p><p>The sound of someone clearing their throat from the vicinity of the doorway makes him jump. Cal looks over and is mortified to see Greez standing there, watching him, all four arms crossed. </p><p>“Did you just try to fix a dislocated shoulder with Jedi magic?” the Latero asks, arching an eyebrow at him. </p><p>Cal squints at him through the lingering haze of pain. “It’s not <em> magic </em>, it’s--” Seeing that Greez has already tuned out the explanation he hasn’t even given yet, he blows out a frustrated breath and cuts himself off. “What do you want, Greez?”</p><p>He raises his upper set of arms placatingly. “Just came back here to check on you. I thought something felt funny with that shoulder earlier. Looks like I was right on the money, as usual. You want some help or do you just wanna keep poking at it until you make it worse?”</p><p>“Didn’t know you had any medical training.”</p><p>“More than you, apparently,” Greez retorts, and Cal reluctantly grins at that, although it comes off more like a grimace. “I still got one or two secrets you ain’t learned yet, kid.”</p><p>“Yeah, you and everyone else on this ship,” Cal mutters, fully aware that he’s being petulant but too tired and in too much pain to care. </p><p>Greez hesitates, looking conflicted, but then he just sighs and shakes his head, beckoning Cal with one hand. “Come on, let’s get this over with. The galley has better lighting, and we both gotta be sitting for this.”</p><p>Defeated, Cal follows the Latero down the hallway, BD-1 scampering close behind. He passes by Cere’s quarters on the way and hesitates, but if she’d heard any of their conversation or Cal’s failed attempt at first aid, she gives no indication, clearly having committed to making herself scarce during the journey to Kashyyyk. Later, she’d promised him, but he has a feeling “later” probably means “never”. Cal frowns and, after continuing to hear nothing but silence, turns away from the door. </p><p>In the galley, Greez gestures for him to sit. Cal does so, warily holding his right arm to his chest. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”</p><p>Greez plops down into the seat across from him, fiddling with the mechanism to adjust the height so that he’s more or less eye level with Cal. “Kid, even if I didn’t, it can’t be any worse than trying to fix it with space magic, right? Trust me, this’ll work. And it’s not even gonna hurt, I promise.”</p><p>Cal lets the whole ‘space magic’ bit slide again, more interested by the prospect of a pain-free procedure. “I’ve seen someone get their shoulder popped back into place before. Looked like it hurt plenty.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, that unlucky slub didn’t have me,” Greez says, thumping his chest. “This is an old Latero trick, totally foolproof. One hundred percent satisfaction, guaranteed. But it only works if you relax.”</p><p>“Easier said than done,” Cal grumbles. The muscles in his shoulder give a sharp spasm as if in response, and he can’t quite muffle the groan that makes its way up his throat.</p><p>Greez makes a vaguely sympathetic sound. “You burn through all those stims already?”</p><p>BD-1 beeps and hops up onto the seat next to Greez, then onto the table. The tray on the side of his head slides open again, offering up the canisters. </p><p>Cal tries to shake his head minutely, sticking to his earlier convictions, but even that slight motion kicks off another spasm. “They’re too strong, they’ll keep me up all night,” he hisses through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to breathe through the pain. </p><p>Greez hums thoughtfully. “In that case, I got an idea. Stay there, don’t move.”</p><p>Eyes still closed, Cal feels rather than sees him slide out of his chair and leave the room.</p><p>BD-1 boops sadly and gently rests the side of his head against Cal’s bicep, closing the stim tray with a quiet snap. The whirring of his servos almost feels like a soothing purr against his bare skin. Cal cracks open an eye and gives the droid an unsteady but hopefully reassuring smile. “Don’t say that. You’re not useless, buddy. I’d just rather hang on to them for another time.”</p><p>BD-1 chirps in reluctant agreement and hops back across the table to stand guard on the back of the sofa just as Greez reappears in the corridor, holding a small disposable hypo in one hand. </p><p>Cal eyes it apprehensively. He’d never admit it, but he’s never been very good with needles. Nothing like a phobia or anything crippling, obviously, or he wouldn’t be as used to the stims as he is; he just has a healthy dislike of sharp objects being plunged into his skin. At least the stims have an injector mechanism that hides the actual needle, unlike this one.</p><p>Greez seems to misinterpret his aversion as distrust. “It’s just a local anesthetic,” he explains, sitting across from Cal once more. “Cracked open my knee a few years ago, messed it up pretty bad. I use the hypos sometimes for joint pain. Humidity does a real number on it.”</p><p>This is evidently another one of those secrets Greez had been keeping, but instead of feeling aggravated, he actually feels somewhat guilty, knowing that they’re currently speeding toward a planet that’s nothing but jungle. “Won’t you need it for Kashyyyk?”</p><p>Greez waves his free hands dismissively. “Nah, I’ve got plenty to spare. It hasn’t been so bad lately, anyway. Just don’t make me run for my life any time soon and we should be good.”</p><p>“No promises,” Cal jokes, then looks away as Greez leans forward and sticks the hypo into the meat of his shoulder. Whatever it is, it’s fast acting--Cal’s whole arm goes cold as the drug flushes through his system, then a pleasant warmth spreads from his shoulder downward, the pain noticeably dimming. It still hurts, but it’s definitely taken the edge off.</p><p>“Better?” Greez asks, then grins triumphantly when Cal nods. “All right, now for the fun part. You trust me?”</p><p>It’s a loaded question, especially after the scene in the cockpit earlier, but Cal finds himself nodding again anyway. Greez can be a crusty old bastard sometimes, and yes, his gambling habits <em> had </em>gotten Cal kidnapped by a criminal syndicate, but at least the Latero has never outright lied to him. That he knows of.</p><p>Greez cracks his knuckles (a particularly gruesome sound effect with four hands) and then shakes them out, as if he’s about to perform a magic trick. “Okay, good. Now remember what I said: this isn’t gonna hurt, but you gotta stay relaxed. So just sit there with your back up straight and think happy thoughts. Oh, and scootch a little closer to me--my arms aren’t are long as yours.”</p><p>Cal does as he’s told, struggling to hold back a flinch when Greez grasps his right arm with his right set of hands. The pilot’s grip is surprisingly gentle; his movements are dextrous and confident as he carefully rotates Cal’s wrist so that their forearms are pressed together, with Greez’s top right hand wrapped loosely around the crux of Cal’s elbow. It looks a bit like the other man is trying to give him some kind of bizarre handshake, and Cal has to fight off the urge to laugh.</p><p>His humor dies when Greez leans forward and reaches for his shoulder with his left hands, his stubby fingers digging into Cal’s trapezius muscles without much in the way of a warning. Intellectually he knows that Greez isn’t trying to hurt him, but his body has other ideas: he shrinks back instinctively, ducking out from under his hands with an audible cringe.</p><p> “Uh, is now a good time to ask what exactly this whole thing is gonna entail?”</p><p>“If you pipe down and let me,” Greez says irritably, letting go of Cal’s shoulder to wag several fingers in his face, “I’m gonna massage your muscles to get them to relax enough so the joint pops back in on its own. Easy peasy, lemon Greezy.”</p><p>“<em>That’s </em> your foolproof method?”</p><p>“Trust me, it works! Unless you want me to do it the way those idiot droids do, with all the yanking and shoving?”</p><p>Cal swallows hard. “No, thanks.”</p><p>“Great. Now shut up and let me work. And keep your back up straight.”</p><p>With considerable effort, Cal does so, holding himself very still as Greez reaches out again and begins massaging the tightly corded muscles across the top of his shoulder, making his way down to the length of his arm to his bicep before starting over. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, mostly thanks to the anesthetic, but it doesn’t feel great, either, probably because he can’t stop from tensing up at the touch. Outside of Prauf’s occasional handshakes or friendly pats on the back, this is probably the most physical contact Cal’s had in years, and the strangeness of it immediately puts him on edge.</p><p>After a few seconds of this, Greez clucks his tongue reproachfully. “You know, for a Jedi with all that training and discipline, you’re really bad at following directions. Loosen up, unclench, yeesh. You’d think I was trying to rip your arm off or something.”</p><p>BD-1 beeps encouragingly at him from his perch on the back of the sofa. Cal closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind and failing miserably. “Sorry, it’s just...weird.”</p><p>“Kid, this ain’t exactly my idea of a good time, either, but it’ll be over a lot quicker if you--”</p><p>“Relax,” Cal finishes, eyes still closed so he can’t see the annoyed look he knows Greez is giving him, “yeah, you’ve said.”</p><p>Greez mutters something under his breath that Cal can only assume is probably Lateron for “smartass” or something equally as unflattering, but he diligently continues working without further comment. Eventually, the motion of his hands takes on an almost rhythmic quality--not necessarily soothing but repetitive enough that Cal can block out everything until all he’s left with is the constant drone of hyperspace and the distant whirr of the engines. Focusing on the familiar sounds, he finds himself slipping into the stillness of meditation, or something like it. He doesn’t let himself fall too deeply, still afraid of what he knows he’ll see if goes too far (<em> white armor decorated in yellow and smeared with red, blue robes scorched black, a silent explosion tinged purple by burning fuel tanks, gray inside, gray, gray, gray </em>), but just far enough to drift peacefully in the blankness of his thoughts.</p><p>He has no idea how much time actually passes, but what feels like only seconds later, and totally without fanfare, he hears a muted <em> pop </em> from under his right ear and lets out a startled cry--not of pain, but of overwhelming <em> relief </em> as feeling rushes back into his arm all at once. Cal opens his eyes, mouth hanging open slightly in disbelief as he looks down at his shoulder and sees that it appears to be in perfect order once more; both the gruesome lump and the swelling are gone as if they’d never been.</p><p>BD-1 hops forward across the table and runs his scanners up and down Cal’s arm. He’s not sure what the droid is looking for, since as far as he’s aware BD units don’t come with any sort of medical protocol, but he submits to the examination without protest. Evidently satisfied, BD-1 shuts off the scan with a celebratory twirl and beeps happily at Greez.</p><p>The Latero lets go of Cal’s arm and sits back, looking smug. “See? What’d I tell ya?”</p><p>Cal flexes his fingers experimentally. They’ve got that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling, as if he’d been sitting on his hand for too long, but it’s a welcome change from the numbness of before. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”</p><p>Greez rolls his eyes. “You’re just lucky I was here. A dislocation like that, left untreated for too long? Coulda put a serious cramp in your style with that laser sword.”</p><p>“Lightsaber,” Cal corrects automatically, the corners of his mouth tugging upward into a grin. “Thanks, Greez.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it. Least I could do after...” Greez trails off, looking visibly uncomfortable. He pauses for a second, mouth twisting into a thoughtful frown, but he just huffs out a sigh and shakes his head. “Yeah, you’re welcome or whatever. Now get out of here, I gotta take care of my plants and you’re in my way.”</p><p>It’s a pretty uninspired attempt at a dismissal--the <em> Mantis’s </em> galley is small, but it’s not <em> that </em> small--and Greez had clearly been about to say something else, but Cal doesn’t have the energy to protest. Smothering an enormous yawn, he nods and pushes himself to his feet. “Guess I’ll head to bed, then. Come on, Beedee.”</p><p>The droid hops down onto his vacated chair and then to the floor with a cheerful chirp. Without waiting for Cal, he scurries down the hallway and disappears into the engine room, seemingly just as eager for bed as Cal is. He makes a mental note to power the little guy down for a much needed maintenance cycle in the near future before turning to Greez. “Careful not to fly us into any asteroids while you’re busy with your plants, okay?”</p><p>“I already said I was sorry for that! Jeez, you get a little too preoccupied with trimming the bonshyyyr <em> one time </em>and they never let you live it down.”</p><p>Cal grins around another yawn. “Night, Greez.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Get out of here.”</p><p>Smirking, Cal shuffles back down the corridor to the engine room. He passes by Cere’s door without pausing this time, heading straight for his bunk. Sitting on the edge of the thin mattress, he rolls his shoulders a few times, carefully at first and then with relish as the movement fails to cause any sort of pain. He’ll still probably want to be careful with it, or as careful as he can be, once they land on Kashyyyk, but for now, it feels incredible to be able to move freely again. Shivering, he uses his newfound mobility to shrug back into his discarded undershirt, wincing a little at the smell of stale, dried sweat. He and his clothes could both do with a wash.</p><p>It’ll have to wait, though. A powerful wave of exhaustion hits him, settling over his body like a lead blanket as he settles back onto the cot with a prolonged sigh. His mind is far from restful, but after everything that’s happened, he’s reached his physical limit. On his pillow, BD-1 murmurs something about a long day. It’s been a long five years, Cal means to say, but the words never make it past his lips, sleep pulling at the edge of his consciousness. Nodding vaguely, his last coherent thought is to hope that the nightmares stay far enough away to allow him at least five hours this time, before sleep claims him completely.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Greez's foolproof Latero method of reducing a dislocated shoulder is a real thing called the Cunningham technique: https://youtu.be/MkdCGV_MOCM</p></blockquote></div></div>
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